Fortunes of Faustus
by Jewelfrost
Summary: The familiar story, rewritten entirely in prose-form.


Finally, my first uploaded fic. It's taken me long enough.

Anyway, updates on this will probably be very widely-spaced - I'm a chronic procrastinator. So, without further ado, may I introduce the tragic tale of Doctor Faustus, rewritten entirely in prose-form. Quite a few of the lines are directly translated into modern English from Marlowe's original text, so if they sound familiar, that may well be why.

Disclaimer - I don't own the story or any of the characters. I wish I _did_, but there you go.

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**Chapter One**

The clocks of Wittenberg University chimed in unison as midnight rolled in, sharply waking one studious artisan from his fitful sleep. Dr. John Faustus sat bolt upright with a start, head flying from its resting place upon his folded arms, pupils rapidly contracting and dilating to adjust to the sudden change in light.

A bleary-eyed glance to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece told him he'd been asleep for the past two hours, and he cursed himself. Too long. He had work to do – sleeping could wait. Shaking himself both physically and mentally, he adjusted his seat and picked up his discarded quill, dipping it delicately into the ceramic inkpot and holding it, poised and ready, above the creamy parchment before him.

Ink dripped steadily from the nib, staining the flawless cream with ugly blotches. Nothing. Nothing was coming to him. He, who had written some of the most influential and talked-about papers in all of Germany, could now not even scrawl down a fitting title anymore! It was ludicrous.

Seized by a sudden burst of anger at his literary failings, Faustus threw down the quill, slammed his chair back and lunged to his feet. Stalking the length of his chamber and leaning his palms on the windowsill, he gazed out at the silvery sickle-moon that hovered directly in his line of vision and exhaled loudly through his nose, frowning a little.

_Quid tu moraris, Faustus?_

He was so tired.

_Quid tu moraris?_

The day-to-day monotony of life was wearing him down. He had achieved everything there was for a man of his stature to achieve – cured diseases that other men had feared to even look into. Even his most irrelevant of statements were often taken by the lesser scholars to be nothing short of medical gospel – why, if everything he said were as true as they assured, then by rights he should be granting immortality and raising the dead by now!

And yet … all his work, all his achievements … they meant nothing to him. An inconsequential collection of trivial little legacies - nothing more.

There _must_ be more.

This couldn't be all there was. There must be more to knowledge to gain, more skills to learn – more uses for his superior intelligence…

Faustus turned from the window with an embittered sigh and headed back over to his desk, noting with weary despair that the inkpot had overturned with the force of his rising, and that the rich mahogany surface was now quite flooded in black. Unable to face the ultimatum of cleaning it up, he instead looked to the aging bookcase that occupied the largest wall, tired eyes roving over the hundreds of aged and broken spines that adorned it's oaken shelves.

The bookcase was not his. It had been installed by one of the room's previous occupants, long before Faustus had ever taken up residence in the university. Some of the books certainly looked ancient enough, although it must be admitted that he had yet to read their majority – many of them were either fictional or religious and Faustus, ever the logical scientist, did not much care for fiction and folklore, and cared even less for the medieval and out-dated concepts of 'religion'.

But as he scanned the shelves now, his gaze was inexplicably drawn to one nondescript little tome that sat nestled comfortably in its place, sandwiched between two much heavier, comparatively modern-looking volumes. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it, although the gold lettering down the spine did glitter unusually brightly against the otherwise-dusty black bindings.

No, it was not its appearance that attracted the attentions of the weary Faustus – it was the words those shining gold letters spelt out, words that he could only wonder how he ever failed to miss.

"_The Master-Art of Necromancy"._

It was the awakening he needed. Necromancy. The Black Arts. One could call it 'magic', but it was really just another form of science that he was yet to explore, and for the first time in months Faustus felt some of his old spirit return to him as he removed the book from its place. Its heaviness in comparison to its size surprised him as he weighed it in his hands, turning it over to inspect it from every angle.

It was clearly very old and tattered, but somehow all the more appealing because of it. He could see now that it wasn't all bound in black as he'd expected – only the spine and corners of the front and back covers were protected in this manner. The rest was cracked brown leather, grown smooth and discoloured with age. The book was held shut with a black leather strap that wrapped firmly around its middle, the hefty silver buckle tarnished and looking almost as though it would never open.

Faustus brushed his hand carefully over its surface, sweeping away a layer of dust as he did so, and felt a shiver race down his spine. He didn't quite know why, but this book had a peculiar feeling of familiarity – as though he had seen it before somewhere, perhaps in a dream. Did he dare open it? As derisive as he was of religion in all its forms, Faustus had nevertheless been brought up a devout protestant and his childhood teachings were not entirely forgotten – he knew how the church viewed such things as necromancy, and he knew what punishments they believed it held. Damnation. Fire and brimstone, at the very least.

But he was a scientist. This was an academical foray. Did Pythagoras hesitate before creating his formulae? Did Aristotle falter before writing his philosophies? No – he would take this leap of faith and he would come out triumphant. And so, with mind, body and soul set upon his path he crossed to his desk, book tucked under his arm, and swept the wooden surface clean of spilt ink, not caring when it cascaded in a black wave onto the carpet. Dabbing up the remains with a handkerchief, he lowered the book reverently onto the now relatively clean surface and sat down before it, gazing at it longingly with his hands in his lap.

This was it. There was no turning back now. He, John Faustus, would be renowned in all of Germany – maybe all of the _world_ – as not just the greatest scholar, but the greatest magician ever to live. This book would open up a world of wealth, of pleasure, of power, of knowledge such as he'd never even dreamt of. He could master towns, cities, provinces, empires – there would be no end to his conquest.

Why … he would be a _god._

A hungry smile graced the face of the young, naïve doctor and without further ado he unfastened the heavy silver buckle of the book with shaking hands, opening it wide before him.


End file.
